Forget Me Not
by AltaeanSonata
Summary: England brings America flowers. Canada schemes to intercept his affections.
1. Chapter 1

**–₤–**

The cold bit into England's skin as he stood outside America's door, but he ignored it well enough. He wore a grey wool overcoat to keep the winter air out, and the only visible effects of the cold were the foggy puffs of breath escaping his lips and the rosy blush of his otherwise pale cheeks.

In his gloved hands he held a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, of course, because roses were boring and cliché and, any more, meaningless. No, these flowers did have meanings, the red carnations and the narcissuses and the few sprigs of witch-hazel thrown in for good measure, because England was England and therefore superstitious. Of course, the meanings would all probably be lost on the other nation, but they meant something to England, and that was enough.

England's reverie was interrupted by the door opening in front of him, and the rush of warm air that followed it. It was a bit startling, as he hadn't remembered knocking. His surprise turned to a slight bit of disappointment as he saw that it was not America but Canada who had opened the door.

"Oh, hello Arthur," Canada said, eyeing the flowers. "What, um... what brings you here this morning?"

England frowned slightly. "Morning, Matthew. Is Alfred here?"

"He's here, he's just finishing something up. Would you like to come in?"

England nodded and stepped through the door past Canada, who quickly moved aside to accommodate him. Setting the flowers down on a table, he shrugged off his coat to reveal a green turtle neck sweater and khaki slacks. He didn't notice Canada's apparent interest in the flowers, or how Canada watched him a little too closely when he took off the coat and kicked off his shoes. Nor did it occur to him that Canada was standing perhaps a bit closer than was proper. His mind was elsewhere, and with that elsewhere in mind he retrieved the flowers and began making his way toward America's office.

"A-Arthur, wait!" Canada called, taking a step to follow him and tentatively reaching out a hand after him.

England stopped, turned around, and raised a bushy eyebrow at him. "What is it?"

"You can't go in there, he's busy!"

"Busy doing what, exactly? It's a Sunday."

"Working on, um... well, you know that treaty everyone signed in Paris last week? It's a follow up to that," Canada said desperately, trying his best to look earnest.

"I see," England said. It was pretty obvious that Canada was lying, but England decided to indulge him, if only out of vague curiosity as to exactly why he was doing it.

Canada looked relieved when he saw that England seemed to accept his story, and continued. "I, um, I think he might be done in an hour or so, if you want to stick around until then. I could put those away for you, or put them in a vase or something," he said, indicating the bouquet in England's hand.

"That's all right, I'll hold on to them," England said dismissively.

"Oh. All right. So... what would you like to do in the meantime? We could watch television, or go for a walk, or talk, or go up to my room and, um... talk," Canada finished lamely. England gave him a funny look, and he cast his eyes downward.

Is _that_ why he seemed so odd? England wondered, somewhat astonished. He felt a little bad that he didn't return the other nation's affection, but he reasoned that Canada would get over it. He was stronger than many other nations gave him credit for, even if he didn't show it sometimes.

"I think I'd prefer to stay here," England said, adding "Downstairs." when he saw Canada's face begin to light up.

Undeterred, Canada remained cheerful, and he bustled into the living room ahead of England. He began straightening cushions and collecting magazines off of the coffee table, while England set the bouquet down again on an otherwise-unoccupied end table. He sat down in the middle of a couch – deliberately avoiding the love seat – and leaned back into the soft leather cushions.

"Sorry about the mess," Canada said, joining England on the couch and leaving far too little space between them. "You know how America can be." There was always a sort of reverence in Canada's tone as he said the other nation's title. If he ever felt any bitterness, he didn't show it.

"I've rather gotten used to it after all this time. Although, I'm grateful that one of you learned proper manners." Canada blushed at the platitude, and England wondered if perhaps he shouldn't just out and out tell Canada how he felt. Or didn't feel, as it were.

And it wasn't that he didn't _like_ Canada. He just didn't feel any sort of romantic affection toward him. Perhaps it was Canada's submissive nature that led England to see him more as a brother or son than as a potential partner.

Or maybe it was a vague sense of pity, due to his being largely ignored by the other nations, that led him to look past the fact that Canada was tentatively brushing his elbow against England's as he reached for the television remote, or that his fingertips grazed England's knee as he retrieved it and settled back into the couch.

Of course, pity didn't make one's heart flutter, or one's spine tingle, but England tried to ignore that too. It was just anticipation of America's imminent arrival, or just a simple physical reflex that had nothing to do with the fact that Canada was the one causing it. England was certain that he'd never felt anything for Canada, which was why it was obviously impossible that he'd be doing so now, and how had this little seed of doubt been planted, anyway? It was like he was the Elizabeth to Canada's Darcy, and Canada's wandering fingers – absently tracing circles over the middle of his thigh, now – the confessory letter that changed his whole outlook.

No, _no,_ he thought, and shook his head to clear it. This whole thing was daft, and why was he thinking so much about Canada, anyway? "Matthew, I don't think–" he began, but both his objection and Canada's apologetically embarrassed retreat to the end of the couch were interrupted by the sound of America's office's door opening.

"Hey Matt, I–" America said, appearing in the doorway, but he stopped when he saw England there. "Arthur? What're you doing here?"

"I just came by to visit," England said smoothly, rising from the couch and taking the bouquet back up into his hand. "I thought this place could use a little colour, too. It's rather drab."

"Flowers?" America said, giving England a strange look. "You'd think you were France or something."

England bristled. "France? You've rather a lot of nerve comparing me to that" – he couldn't resist the pun – "lily-livered pansy."

America laughed, and England couldn't tell whether it was because he got the joke, or whether it was just because he was America and laughed at everything. It was possibly both, and to England it was a little infuriating. "Look, just take the damn flowers," he said, and America laughed again.

"All right, all right, keep your pants on. Matt, mind getting a vase for these?" America said, taking the flowers from England's hand and waving them at Canada.

Canada, still looking embarrassed, hopped up from the couch with a mumbled "Sure" and hurried out of the room.

"So why did you really come?" America asked after he had left.

"To bring you flowers, you git. I haven't got an ulterior motive for everything."

"Mm," America said, not really paying attention. "So you want to go for a walk or something? I've been inside all day, got sucked into those Sudoku puzzle things. They're really addictive, _but_ they're supposed to make you smarter or more logical or something, so it's okay." He pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. "I'm a little stiff from staring at them for the last few hours, though."

"A walk would be nice," England said, trying not to think too hard about America practising logic.

"All right, let's go then!" America said, tossing the flowers haphazardly onto the couch. England grimaced as some of the flowers shook loose and tumbled to the floor, but he turned away and followed America back to the front door.

The two put on their coats and shoes, and America led the way outside. Through all this neither nation glanced back, or even thought about Canada, who had just found the _perfect_ vase to display the flowers that England had brought.

**–₤–**


	2. Chapter 2

–₤–

Snow had just begun to fall when England and America began their walk, dusting the frozen ground and whispering softly between the branches of trees. The mid-morning sun was hidden by an overcast blanket of clouds, and the air seemed crisp and dry and yet muffled their voices as only snow-dusted air can do.

"I still can't believe you brought me _flowers_ to liven up my place," America said. He wouldn't stop teasing England about them, and England was well past thinking that bringing them had been a mistake.

"I'd say I can't believe you can't appreciate natural beauty," England retorted, scowling at nothing in particular, "but I quite easily can."

"'Course I can," America said, sauntering over to an oak tree and tracing a finger along the grooves and creases of its bark.

"Hmph, you ought to stop paving it over, then," England said, joining America by the tree.

"That's the whole point of freedom, though, isn't it? To be able to say 'to hell with it' and pave it over anyway." He reached up and snapped off a branch to emphasize his point, sending a flurry of snow down onto England's head. "To appreciate the beauty or to tear it down to make way for something ugly. But being able to do that's beautiful, too."

England brushed the cold powder off of his face in annoyance, and directed his scowl at America this time. "That's deeper than I'd have expected from you."

America shrugged, and began walking again, branch still in his hand. "I've had a lot of time to think about it. You should have seen this place when it was new. I mean, of course you did, but not all of it, not like I did. Forests, and mountains, and endless empty plains... A lot of it is still empty, and will be for a long time, but the people – my people – left marks on all of it. Turned it from possibility into reality."

England kept pace with America, taking in his words. He couldn't bring himself to say it, but he wished he _had_ been there with America through all of it. He wished he'd been there to see America move west, to watch as the land America lived in became America himself. There really was a sort of beauty in that, he supposed.

America, oblivious to England's reverie, continued. "Besides, it's not like you can eat nature. But you _can_ eat progress. Well, as long as progress is fast-food-shaped."

England rolled his eyes. He knew it was too good to last. "Not all progress is fast food, you know."

"Of course not. But when was the last time you got excited about silicon chips or fuel efficiency or stem cells? A three-dollar burger with mushrooms and Swiss cheese and _bacon,_ though? You can't tell me that's not exciting." And he really did look excited, waggling his finger at England like England knew he was right and was just playing silly buggers in denying it.

England was irked now. "No. It isn't. It's daft. Do you really think that you're making a difference?"

"'Course I am. Everyone's doing it, aren't they? Sure it's not big, not... _important,_ but little things can be awesome, too. Change the world, change people's lives. You know how long people used to spend cooking? And now they don't have to, if they don't want to. They can go out, and, and _do stuff,_ instead of being stuck at home making a pot roast." He was walking ahead of England now, not looking back as he spoke, with his arms stretched out at his sides as though he was an exuberant evangelist preaching to the world at large. The quickening snowfall ignored him, and so he turned back to England, an expectant look on his face.

England had to admit, he liked America's enthusiasm. He was old, older than a lot of nations, and a bit world-weary. Seeing the younger nation's cheerfulness and... his earnestness, really, it made him think of when he was young, too. Of course, the selfsame thing aggravated him to no end, but... he could overlook that.

All that being said, Canada was much the same way, although without as many annoying displays of ego. But England drove that thought well out of his mind, and focused instead on America, who was–

_Paff!_

–throwing a snowball at his face, apparently. "What the bloody hell was _that _for?"

America shrugged. "You were ignoring me. So I got your attention."

The bits of snow still stuck to England's face stung, colder even than the air around him, so he brushed them away as well as he could with his coat sleeve, leaving only a few clinging tenaciously to his eyebrows. "Sodding right you did! You, you–" he reached down and grabbed up a handful of snow "–absolutely _magnificent_ bastard!" He lobbed the snowball at America, not as hard as he would have liked, and frowned as the other nation easily ducked it.

"I'll take that as a compliment!" America called back, laughing as he threw another snowball in England's direction. This one flew over England's shoulder, and impacted with a _thunk _on a tree behind him.

England, his face red from the cold and the snow and _annoyance at America_ (as though _that_ was anything new), grabbed and shaped another lump of snow and had it hurtling toward America before he could even think. This one made a satisfying _paff_ against America's coat, but that only made the other nation laugh harder. "C'mon, Arthur, you throw like a _girl!_"

Which, of course, only served to piss England off all the more, but he had to admit there was a certain amount of fun in throwing snowy projectiles at America. A certain disquiet came over him as, taking cover behind a tree, he realised that this was eerily similar to fighting America – _actually_ fighting America – so many years ago. But he pushed that to the back of his mind with Canada and everything else, and concentrated on smacking America in the face with a snowball.

"Hah! Missed me again! Do I have to come over there and teach you how to throw, Kirkland?" America called from behind his own tree. He sent a couple of snowballs whizzing back toward England, who dodged one but caught another with his shoulder.

"Blow me!" England called back, hurling a snowball along with the insult.

"Is that a request?" America retorted, and it was only because England's face was already beet red from the cold that it didn't turn any redder.

"Hardly!" England said, sending another snowball at America, and somehow this one did manage to connect with the other nation's face. America's glasses went flying, and England, though laughing, felt a little bad when he saw him kneel to the ground in an attempt to find them.

"Hey, cease fire, okay?" America said.

England nodded. "Of course." He brushed the half-melted snow off of his hands (which were starting to go numb) and dried them on his coat, and then walked over to help America look for his glasses.

The snow was getting a bit deep now, at least three inches, and it took England a moment to find where America's glasses had gone. "Here they are," he said, and America's face lit up.

England stood and walked over to America, holding the glasses out to him. The other nation took them, dusting the snow off the rims and putting them back onto his face with a "Thanks."

"Not a problem," England said. He then frowned. "You've got some snow on your face, still."

"Huh? Where?" America said, rubbing the front of his face with his sleeve.

"Here," England said, reaching out to brush away a clump of snow by America's ear. His fingertips brushed America's ear in the process, not wholly unintentionally, and America's cheeks grew almost imperceptibly redder.

"Your hands are cold," America mumbled.

"Hm?" England said, mostly just to keep the conversation going and not think too much about what he'd just done. He failed to realise that his hand was still hovering by America's ear.

"I said your hands are cold," America repeated. He took England's free hand in his own hands, which weren't much warmer.

"'S because you had me throwing snowballs at you, you git," England murmured. He was tracing the line of America's ear with his fingertip now, around and down and along his jawline to his chin. His heart was beating a bit faster than normal, now, and he vaguely wondered if America could hear it.

"You weren't listening to me," America said, nodding his head down and brushing his lips against England's finger in a faint kiss.

England grazed his fingertip softly across America's lips, and he could feel the warmth of his breath on his hand. America replied with a light bite, holding England's finger in his teeth and flicking his tongue against it for a second before releasing it.

"Mm... You have my attention now," England said, closing his eyes and moving his hand up to comb his fingers through America's hair.

"Huh..." America replied, and said nothing for a long time. He pulled England close, and England fancied he could feel the other nation's heart beating, even through their thick coats. "So... is this why you brought flowers?" America finally asked.

"Shut up, America," England said, and kissed him.

–₤–

A/N: Sorry for the distinct lack of Canada this week; he just didn't fit into this chapter. Next chapter should feature him quite heavily, though ;)


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